


Headlights

by pushingthesenses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Season/Series 05, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingthesenses/pseuds/pushingthesenses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I’m broken and I’m bruised,<br/>I’m beaten black and blue,<br/>Split at the seams; but so are you.<br/>If you take me as I am,<br/>Bitter and bland,<br/>I’d face the headlights,<br/>Side by side with you.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Dean Winchester often wonders how it came to be, that he even lived to see the age of thirty four.<br/>He never imagined living past the age of twenty eight.<br/>That’s how it goes, when you’re a hunter. You eat, breathe, sleep hunting. Protection is a must. Family comes first; trust no one else. Save lives, but never expect a thank you.<br/>They never say thank you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Headlights

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to have two multi-chapter stories going at the same time. Generic, mini-story (well, I plan on it being mini) set circa season five.  
> Inspired by a song called Headlights by a great band called Young Guns.  
> Once again, sorry for any mistakes, and constructive criticism is always welcome.  
> x

_Yeah, I need meaning,  
As much as I need air to fill these old lungs of mine,  
I didn't notice, but I've been holding my breath as long as I've been alive._

Dean Winchester often wonders how it came to be, that he even lived to see the age of thirty four.  
He never imagined living past the age of twenty eight.  
That’s how it goes, when you’re a hunter. You eat, breathe, sleep hunting. Protection is a must. Family comes first; trust no one else. Save lives, but never expect a thank you.  
They never say thank you.  
Cash, never credit. Fake names. Motels. Never invest in a permanent residence. Never settle down. Never let anyone in. Never, ever tell anyone what you really do for a living.  
Never, ever explain the term, “salting and burning”.  
Keep out of prison. Keep out of the wacko-house.  
Kill things. Exorcize things. Kill more things.  
Get seriously injured.  
Keep hunting.  
Die on the job.

No one ever got out. Anyone who tried, died before they got the chance. He was tied to his fate. When he died, it wasn’t going to be of a heart attack, stroke, cancer. It wasn’t going to be because he fell off a ladder, cleaning the windows. It wasn’t even going to be a car crash, a robbery gone wrong, or a crazy mugging.  
When Dean’s final day arrives, his death will be at the hand of something much worse.  
Dean doesn’t know how he’s going to die. But he has a few ideas.  
Maybe he’d get dragged to Hell.  
Again.

Hell isn’t somewhere on Dean’s list of places he’d recommend to visit. Although only four months had passed on earth – four months of Sam Winchester tearing his hair out, trying to resurrect his brother – forty years had passed in Hell.  
Dean had all but forgotten what it was like to laugh, to smile. All he could do was scream. Cry.  
But then he picked up Alastair's blade, and he didn't have to cry anymore.  
He just watched as everyone else cried, screamed in pain. Pain that he caused.

He was twenty nine when he went to Hell.  
He was pretty sure he was going to be twenty nine forever.  
But then Castiel happened.  
Dean doesn’t remember much of it. He just remembers light. Lots of light. He remembers the light coming toward him, reaching out to him, but he shied away.  
He remembers muttering; “Leave me here.”  
He didn’t deserve to be saved.  
But the light consumed him, wrapped around him, hugged him close. It whispered to him in languages he couldn’t understand.  
He was calm. Broken, bleeding, but calm. He felt loved.  
And then he woke up in a coffin, six feet under.  
He was saved.

Castiel never talks about what happened. He never talks about the searing brand he’d left on Dean’s left shoulder – a handprint. His handprint. He never mentioned how he’d pieced Dean’s soul back together like a jigsaw made of broken glass.  
Castiel couldn’t find all the pieces. Couldn’t fix him entirely.  
Dean didn’t care, though. He had always been a little bit broken.

But in the aftermath of the almost-apocalypse - an apocalypse which was accidentally jump-started by Dean himself - he found himself depending on Cas just as much as he depended on Sam. But this was different.  
He was letting Castiel get under his skin.  
This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Castiel had saved Dean in his true form. But he took a human form on Earth. Of a man, a little older than Dean, always wearing a trench-coat, the same outfit always underneath.  
Dean hates the trench-coat. But Castiel looks so lost, so naked without it.  
It took a long time for Dean to admit to himself that Cas’ vessel was beautiful.  
It took even longer for Dean to admit to himself that there was something about Cas.  
But he didn’t love him. No, Dean doesn’t love anyone. Not a single soul, except Sam.  
Dean was straight. Very, very straight.  
Until Cas.


End file.
